‘Any idea what killed her?’
‘Could have been the blows to the head.’ Dr Burns pointed to areas where the blond hair was dark and matted with blood on the skull, the broken cheekbone, the mess of the mouth and ear. ‘It could also be internal injuries,’ he went on. ‘It looks as if someone stamped on her. A beating like this is likely to rupture the spleen and God knows what else. I think her hip is probably broken, too.’
‘Any ideas on time of death?’
Burns sighed. Annie knew it was the question all crime-scene doctors and pathologists hated because it was so difficult to answer accurately, but she had to ask. ‘Based on body temperature readings and the fact that rigor is advanced, I’d say it happened sometime between one and three in the morning. It was a warm night.’
‘Thanks,’ said Annie. ‘Are you finished with her?’
Dr Burns glanced at the body again. ‘God, yes,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you are. Not by a long shot.’ And he walked off to his car.
Annie asked Peter Darby and one of the CSIs if they had also finished with the body, and they said they had. She had a raincoat in the back of the car – always a sensible precaution in Yorkshire – and while they waited for the coroner’s van, she took it out and spread it gently over the girl’s body. For some reason she didn’t want the girl’s nakedness on display, even though everyone at the scene was a professional. Gerry still seemed especially pale and shaken by the sight.
‘Excuse me for asking,’ said Annie. ‘I realise I should know, but I can’t remember. Is this your first murder victim?’
Gerry offered a weak smile. ‘You usually keep me in the squad room chained to the computer.’
‘If you want to talk, or anything . . . As long as there’s a large glass of wine in it for me.’
‘Thanks, guv.’ Gerry straightened her back and stuck her long pre-Raphaelite locks behind her ears. ‘What next?’
‘We wait. Stefan’s gang are good, but they take their time. I think whatever happens, high-profile case or not, Alan’s going to find himself senior investigating officer on this one, so we’ll report to him when we get back to the station. First priority is to find out who she is. We’ll need to start checking on missing persons as soon as possible, and see how soon we can draft in a forensic odontologist to get working on dental records. We also need an artist’s impression. From what I could tell, her face is too badly disfigured for a useful photo ID. We’ll check with local schools, even though they’re on holiday. Social services. What’s your gut feeling on this?’
‘I think we need to know whether she was dumped or killed here, for a start.’
‘It seems a good out-of-the-way place to dump a body,’ Annie said. ‘Or even to kill someone. We should talk to whoever lives in that farmhouse over there.’
‘Ladies!’
Annie turned around to the source of the voice. It was Stefan Nowak about a couple of hundred yards up the road. ‘If you’d care to come here,’ he said, ‘I think we might have something interesting for you.’
‘I still find it hard to understand how a fourteen-year-old girl could be sexually assaulted in front of a witness and nothing was done,’ said DS Winsome Jackman, as she parked the police Skoda in the tiny, charming village of Minton-on-Swain. ‘She did report it at the time, you say?’
‘She says she did,’ said Banks. ‘Different times. Didn’t you follow the Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris cases?’
‘Not really. They don’t mean anything to me. I mean, I know who they are, and it’s terrible what they got away with, but they had nothing to do with my life. They weren’t part of my childhood. I’m paying more attention to that Bill Cosby thing in the States.’
‘They were part of my childhood,’ said Banks. ‘Not a big part, maybe, except when Savile was a DJ on Radio Luxembourg, and I used to listen under the bedclothes, but a part, nonetheless. The Teen and Twenty Disc Club.’
‘The what?’
‘It’s what his radio programme was called. You could even write in to become a member, get a card with a number and a charm bracelet with a disc on it. I wish I still had mine. They’re probably worth a fortune now on the creepy souvenirs market. I’ve still got my Radio Luxembourg Books of Record Stars. You know, it’s funny the little things you remember, but it made you feel special that Elvis was a member, too. I even remember his number: one one three two one.’
‘Elvis Costello?’
Banks laughed. ‘Elvis Presley. Believe it or not, Winsome, I was an Elvis fan back then. Still am.’
‘But isn’t that when he was making those terrible films? We used to get them on television when I was little.’
‘Just between you and me, I used to enjoy those terrible films. I still listen to the soundtracks now and then. Girl Happy, Fun in Acapulco, Viva Las Vegas. Mostly pretty bad songs, but a few gems, and say what you like about Elvis, he had a great voice.’
‘We had a pastor who did terrible things to young girls the next village over,’ said Winsome. ‘Not to me, but girls my age.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘The fathers ganged up and . . . well, it wasn’t very nice. They used a machete. He was lucky to be alive, or maybe not, but he wasn’t able to harm any more girls after that. My father was livid. There was nothing he could do to stop it, but he could hardly arrest them all, either.’
‘It was a bit like that when I was a kid,’ said Banks, standing for a moment to breathe in the fragrant summer air. It was late July, and the village gardens were in bloom. Banks could see why Minton had recently won a best-kept Dales village award. The inhabitants clearly took great pride in their gardens. ‘Maybe without the machete. But it was like everyone knew who you should stay away from. Word gets around not to go near that Mr So-and-so at number eight, and we wouldn’t. Nobody ever said why.’
‘But people in the community knew who the perverts were?’
‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘Without anyone telling them who was on a sex offenders list, if we even had such things then. And as often as not, the community dealt with it. I think they stopped short of murder and castration where I grew up, but one or two local pervs upped sticks for no apparent reason. Warned off, I should think.’
‘But they’d only go somewhere else.’
‘That’s the problem. If what we’re hearing is true, people like Danny Caxton didn’t even get warned off, so they just carried on as they liked, year after year.’
‘And nobody stopped them. We didn’t stop them.’
‘No, we didn’t. Here it is.’
The three small cottages stood on the opposite side of the road from the main village, and Linda Palmer lived in the one with the green Mini parked outside. Banks and Winsome opened the gate, walked down the narrow hedge-lined path and flight of stone stairs, then Banks knocked on the sturdy red door. It was a warm afternoon, and even though he had slung his jacket over his shoulder, he could already feel the sweat sticking his shirt to his skin, trickling and tickling down the groove of his spine. The heat didn’t seem to bother Winsome. She was as cool as ever in her tailored navy jacket and skirt.
When the door finally opened, he found himself face to face with a tall, slender woman with short ash-blond hair cut in a jagged fringe. Her hand gripped his and then Winsome’s in a firm handshake.
‘Come on in, both of you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I took so long to answer the door, but I was out in the garden. It’s such a beautiful day, it seemed a shame to waste it. Will you join me? Or do we have to sit on uncomfortable seats in the dark to do this?’
‘We’d be happy to join you,’ Banks said.
She moved ahead of them gracefully, looking good in close-fitting jeans and a loose white cotton tunic. The interior of the house seemed dark after the bright sun, but before their eyes had time to adjust they went through the open French windows and found themselves outside again. This time, they were in a different world. The river wasn’t very wide at this point, and it ran swift and deep a
t the bottom of the sloping lawn, the sun flashing like diamonds on its shifting, coiling surface, its sound constant but ever-changing. The opposite riverbank was overgrown with trees, some of them willows weeping down into the water, others leaning at precarious angles, as if they were about to topple in at any moment. Above the trees, it was possible to make out the pattern of drystone walls on the higher slopes of the opposite daleside, Tetchley Fell reaching high above Helmthorpe, close to where Banks lived, and much greener this summer after the rains.
But it was the river that drew one’s attention with its magnetic power, its voice and its shifting, scintillating movement. The garden was just a swatch of lawn that needed mowing, edged with a few beds of colourful flowers: poppies, foxgloves, roses. Fuchsia and a bay tree hung over the drystone wall from next door. At the bottom was a low iron railing decorated with curlicues, and beyond that the riverbank itself. A white table and four matching chairs awaited them in the shade of an old beech tree, along with a jug full of ice cubes and orange juice. The French windows remained open and Banks could hear music playing quietly inside. He recognised the opening movement of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.
‘I thought cold drinks might be nicer than tea,’ Linda Palmer said, ‘but it’s up to you.’
‘Cold is fine,’ said Banks, hanging his jacket over the back of the chair. His tie had disappeared soon after the morning meeting.
‘Good, then. Let’s sit down, shall we?’
They sat. Banks noticed an open book face down on the table beside an ashtray. It was called Dart by Alice Oswald, and looked slim enough to be a volume of poetry. Beside it sat a black Moleskine notebook with a Mont Blanc rollerball lying across its cover, which seemed a bit upmarket for a poet. Perhaps they got paid more than he thought. Linda Palmer poured the drinks, which turned out to be freshly squeezed, judging by the pulp and tang. It was good to be in the shade in the warm summer weather. A light, cool breeze made the garden even more comfortable. A black cat came out from the bushes, gazed at them with a distinct lack of interest and stretched out in the sun.
‘Don’t mind her,’ said Linda. ‘That’s Persephone. Persy, for short, though that makes her sound male, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s beautiful here,’ Banks said.
‘Thank you. I just adore it. We get a kingfisher sometimes, sitting on that branch over the water, scanning for fish. I could watch him for hours. Plenty of other birds, too, of course. The feeder attracts finches, wagtails, tits of all kinds. We get swifts and swallows in the evening, an owl at night. And the bats, of course. It can be really magical when the moon is full. Sometimes I don’t think I would be at all surprised to see fairies at the bottom of this garden.’
‘Do you live here alone?’
‘I do now. Not always.’ A faraway look came into her eyes. ‘Two children, both grown up and flown the coop. One husband, deceased.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
She inclined her head. ‘It was two years ago. Heart attack. Charles was a good man. He was an English prof at Durham.’
‘Did you ever tell him and the children about what happened?’
Linda gave a slight shake of her head, and Banks knew not to pursue the matter. Not yet, at any rate. Now that he could examine her more closely, he noticed that she had a few crow’s feet around her eyes and crinkles at the edges of her mouth, but that only accentuated her beauty rather than detracting from it in any way. Her pale complexion was smooth, lightly freckled, the lips still full, a generous mouth. She wore no make-up, but with her skin, she didn’t need it. The features of her heart-shaped face were strong, but not too sharp or angular, the Nordic cheekbones well defined, nose in proportion with everything else. But it was her dark blue eyes that really tantalised. Banks could sense warmth, humour, tenderness and curiosity under a guarded surface, and a hint of sadness, loss and pain beneath all that. They didn’t flit around in search of an object to settle on, but remained fixed on whomever she was talking to. Her hands, usually a giveaway sign of age, seemed even younger than the rest of her, long tapered fingers and soft skin. No rings or jewellery of any kind. There were certain women, Banks thought, such as Cherie Lunghi and Francesca Annis, who seemed to become more attractive with age, and Linda Palmer was one of them.
‘As I understand it,’ he began, ‘you rang county HQ two days ago after being advised to do so by Childline, and you talked to a Detective Inspector Joanna MacDonald. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you call?’
‘I didn’t know who else to talk to. Was I wrong?’
‘No, I mean, why now? After so long. What was special about the day before yesterday?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So why?’
‘I can’t explain it that easily.’
‘Was it anything to do with other recent events?’
‘Of course it was. It’s a need that’s been slowly building up in me. I’ve been plucking up the courage. You might not believe it, but I’m nervous as hell about this meeting. Would I have come forward if all those women hadn’t complained about Jimmy Savile? I don’t know. I like to think so, but probably not. I don’t think they would have all come forward, either, if they hadn’t known there were others with the same story to tell.’
It was true, Banks knew. At one point in the Savile investigation, the police had their knuckles rapped for not letting the accusers know they weren’t alone. In some ways, though, it was hardly their fault; they were only thinking of what possible repercussions such collusion might have if the case went to trial. ‘So it wasn’t that you forgot about it and just suddenly remembered?’
‘No. I never forgot it. And before you ask, I’m interested in neither money nor notoriety. In fact, I would prefer it if you kept my name out of the papers.’
‘Anonymity is guaranteed in cases like this,’ said Banks.
‘Even if I had to . . . you know . . . testify in court?’
‘Even then. There are special protocols in place to deal with this matter in the courts and so on. And you can’t be cross-examined by your alleged attacker in person.’
‘Thank you.’ She paused a moment. ‘May I ask you if any others have come forward?’
‘It’s early days yet,’ Banks said, ‘but yes, there are others. Believe me, you’re not alone.’
A blackbird sang in the garden next door and bees hummed and crawled inside the foxgloves and fuchsias, legs fat with pollen. The sound of the river was a constant background, threaded with the Beethoven Pastoral.
‘It’s something I never thought about back then, when it happened,’ Linda said. ‘That there would be others, that he would have done the same thing to someone else.’
‘You were fourteen,’ Banks said. ‘Hard to be anything other than the centre of the universe at that age.’
Linda managed a sad smile. ‘I did report it to the police at the time, you know.’
‘Do you remember who you spoke to?’
‘I can’t remember his name,’ said Linda. ‘I wasn’t going to tell anyone, not even my mum. I was frightened, and I was ashamed. But I’d been unable to sleep, I was off my food, just not myself at all, not functioning well, and Mother was desperate with worry. She even took me to the doctor’s. She kept on pushing me, and finally I told her what happened.’
‘But not your father?’
She hesitated. ‘No. He . . . he wouldn’t have handled it well. I know it would have come out eventually if . . . well . . . but at the time, no.’
‘Did the doctor examine you?’
‘No. He just said I was run-down and needed a tonic.’
‘How was the policeman? I mean, how did he treat you?’
‘Sympathetic, nice enough, but I’m not sure he believed me.’
‘Oh?’
‘Just his tone. It was difficult, him being a man, like it would have been for my father. Hard to talk about what happened. He seemed more embarrassed than anything else. And that office
. It was like the headmaster’s study where you went for the cane.’
Banks smiled. He could imagine it had been difficult. These days, if something like that had just happened to her, she would have been talking to a sympathetic woman in a special room with muzak and subdued lighting. Candles, probably. Maybe even the Pastoral Symphony. ‘I doubt you were down for the cane all that often.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘You’d be surprised.’
‘If you’d be more comfortable talking to a female investigator,’ said Banks, ‘that can be easily arranged. I know you told DI MacDonald you weren’t bothered, but DS Jackman here can take over.’
Linda Palmer smiled at Winsome. ‘It’s all right. No offence, but I’m OK. Really.’ Then she turned to Banks again. ‘You’re the one they sent. It’s your case, isn’t it?’
‘Something like that. But, as I say, that can be changed. We can accommodate whatever you want. Both DS Jackman here and DI MacDonald are excellent officers.’
‘I assume you were chosen because you’re good at your job. Are you good?’
Winsome glanced at Banks as he shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. He could see the faint outline of a grin on her face. Enjoying his discomfort. ‘I’m not one to blow my own trumpet,’ he said. ‘But I’ve had my fair share of success.’
‘You’ll do, then.’
‘Thanks very much.’
Linda glanced at Winsome again, and they both laughed. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Linda. ‘It wasn’t meant to sound like that. The thing is, I really don’t care who I speak to. It was a long time ago, and I’m a big girl now. It was different then, when I was only fourteen, but a lot of water’s gone down the river since. Even my gynaecologist is a man these days.’
‘OK,’ Banks said. Burgess was right; this was no damaged witness. Linda Palmer could function better than most. Might that make her story seem less credible to a judge and jury? Banks wondered. Would people demand more wailing and gnashing of teeth, a history of drug and alcohol abuse? ‘I just wanted to make sure. I understand you heard nothing more of this original complaint?’
When the Music's Over: The 23rd DCI Banks Mystery Page 4
